


Four Stitches and a Patch

by TenYearMan



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Hux is not amused, M/M, i am surprised at how non-explicit this got, it is neither hurt nor comfort but also both, mostly theres banter, ren is injured, someone is terrified of needles, they hate each other but not really, this is the Kylux version of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 07:57:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6745822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TenYearMan/pseuds/TenYearMan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kylo Ren is about as good a patient as one might imagine he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Stitches and a Patch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spacetrashdelux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacetrashdelux/gifts).



> I hope this is banter-y enough ;u; I liked the prompt a lot and tried to make it witty/clever without being overbearing.
> 
> The prompt:  
> Hux fusses at Ren while patching him up after a fight/battle/etc. It can be tender and slightly fluffy, but...them. Bitter, under-their-breath grump babies. Bonus points for a surprise kiss!

“Would you sit still for  _ one _ kriffing moment?” His voice is a low, menacing hiss despite the fact that they are alone in the Medbay, barring, of course, the medical droids loitering around - two already destroyed on the floor, one of which emits periodic sparks where Kylo Ren, resident walking disaster, has torn out some electrical wiring component from the chassis. Hux hovers over his too-bulky,too-dangerous, clearly-agitated form, but unlike the droids, Ren cannot simply  _ Force _ him away. He wouldn't put it past the bastard to return from the dead with a vengeance. That, of course, does not mean that he has to be an easy patient. He doesn't have to be patient at all in fact, and when an antiseptic swab approaches the gash across his torso, Ren rears back like some wild thing, sharp enough that he almost catches the underside of Hux’s jaw with the top of his head. 

It would have been worth it, he thinks abstractly, edging away from the swab now that he's escaped the General's clutches.

“Are you eager to bleed to death, is that it? Do you think this is  _ fun _ for me?”

“The way you're so  _ insistent _ , General, I'd say you were having the time of your life.”

Hux very nearly slaps him. Ren can see the twitch of his free hand, the way it jerks forward and then back in place like Hux is seriously,  _ seriously  _ contemplating the benefits of backhanding him until his neck snaps, and wouldn’t that be something, anyway? Ren would like to see Hux explain  _ that  _ to the Supreme Leader.

But Hux does no such thing. He takes a deep breath like he’s about to meditate and leans forward again. Ren leans back, but there’s only so far he can go on the bench before he hits the wall, shoulderblades connecting to durasteel and leaving him hemmed in like a caged animal. Hux takes his opportunity and then there’s a cold burn - something that makes Ren hiss out a pained swear and jerk his shoulder away. Hux does not allow this to take its natural course. His bloody, rubber-gloved hand clamps around Ren’s bicep and holds him there while he cleans the gash with four, five,  _ six _ , decisive swipes each one more painful than the last as the alcohol removes protective layers of blood and exposes the wound to the elements.

It’s an ugly thing, made by jagged claws and teeth rather than the easy, quickly-cauterized burn of a lightsaber. Ren won’t say where he got it from and Hux doesn’t ask, dropping the swab into a metal tray nearby for biohazard disposal later. Nothing appears to be caught in the mess, and based on the fact that Ren is still conscious and  _ bitching  _ at him, Hux can only assume that whatever bit (scratched?) the man wasn’t venomous or otherwise.

“Enjoying the view, General?” Ren hisses, muscles of his torso twitching involuntarily in response to the residual sting. It kriffing hurts, and Hux is taking his sweet damn time in getting around to patching him up. The gash has started bleeding faintly again, sluggish and oozing warm over Ren’s ribs. Hux says nothing - bastard - for some time, and Ren almost nearly starts squirming again before the General straightens up and snaps the gloves off, tossing them in with the other biohazardous waste.

“Stay here.” 

Ren does not, in fact, stay. He has entirely too much energy for a man with a sizable superficial tear, and Hux kind of wishes it had gone deeper - punctured a lung or something so he wouldn’t have to deal with a Ren too injured to lick his own wounds but not injured enough to not be a nuisance. He moves off and like a lost puppy, the Knight follows, plucking a compress off the tray and pressing it against his own chest.

“You know, if you were going to do a worse job than those droids, you might as well have left me to die planetside.”

Hux bristles, shoulders hunching and Ren can practically _see_ his hair stand on end. It’s very brief, almost nonexistent, but Ren can tell - he’s gotten exceptionally good at crawling under the General’s skin. “One would wish. But explaining your unfortunate demise to the Supreme Leader would require more effort than putting you back together.”

They stop before a medical supply closet; Hux pulls it open and proceeds to rifle through the contents while Ren -  _ poor _ , injured Ren - leans against the doorframe, forehead resting on cool metal and compress against his chest. For some minutes it is blissfully, perfectly silent - Hux concentrates on whatever it is he’s looking for and Ren watches him, dark eyes darker under the single bulb that hangs in the closet. He does not move when Hux, having seemingly gathered whatever supplies he was after, turns and attempts to make an exit. 

“Move, Ren.” Otherwise they would be there for a long, long time, and Hux still has things to do that don’t involve babysitting an overgrown child. 

Ren,  _ does not  _ in fact move, though he does straighten up and square his shoulders, peering at the assortment of things in Hux’s arms.

“What’ve you got there?”

Maker help him.

“Sutures, anaesthesia, bacta patches, heat compress. Go sit down, Ren.  _ Before  _ you pass out and embarrass both of us.”

Ren is shirtless and broad-shouldered, with scars littering every inch of a well-defined torso and biceps like kriffing tree trunks, so the last thing that Hux expects is the visible cringe when he utters the word  _ ‘sutures _ .’ As interesting as it might be to further explore that particular phobia, however, he refrains, gesturing out the door with another pointed look.

“I don’t need stitches.” Ren, like the stubborn wall that he is, refuses to move. Hux frowns, and Ren fears that if it gets any deeper, his brows will converge and then proceed to swallow up the rest of his scrunched-up forehead. It’s not a particularly attractive look, but he does not move - not even for the sake of a prettier expression upon the General’s face.

“As amusing as your childish phobia is, you do need stitches, Ren. You’ve nearly bled through the compress.” The option to dunk the man in a bacta vat is always there, but it’s such a waste of resources that Hux banishes the idea before it has a chance to fully form. Four stitches and a patch ought to be plenty enough, if only Ren would  _ kriffing cooperate _ .

There are ways, however. Hux sets his supplies on a nearby shelf and fetches a pair of gloves from another, sliding first one on, then the other.

“What are you doing?” Ren sounds vaguely off-put, like he’s reconsidering a number of life choices in that moment; Hux is entirely undeterred.

He picks a vial - anaesthesia - and a syringe off the shelf, setting the needle onto the barrel and uncapping it while he shakes the liquid.

“If you refuse to sit down, I suppose the treatment will have to be standing.”

There’s a beat of silence, and really, Hux shouldn’t of expected this to go his way at all. Maybe he was  _ too  _ optimistic, some days.

He doesn’t even get the chance to press the needle to the thin seal of the bottle. Maybe that’s a good thing - less waste, in the end. He’s frozen, the plunger tucked between his pointer and middle finger. Ren hasn’t moved much more than his hand to achieve this, left up to keep Hux in place while the right still holds the slowly-reddening compress.

“ _ Unhand me _ .” At least Ren hasn’t muffled his voice. Yet.

“You cannot be  _ serious _ , Ren. It’s a needle.” The bastard’s gone through hell and back without batting an eyelash before.

Ren is  _ very  _ serious, actually, but his injury has him a touch sluggish - a little bit less coordinated than usual.

Hux wrenches himself from that invisible hold (he’ll have phantom bruises on his wrist later), and stumbles forward, shoving his shoulder into Ren’s chest. It’s enough of a shock - and probably a searing pain, for Ren - to have them both pitching out of the room and onto the medbay floor. The syringe is lost somewhere, fallen from Hux’s hand to roll away until some unfortunate soul finds it under a table or a bench and Hux himself is sprawled quite firmly over Ren’s torso. There’s a smear of blood on his jaw, he notes abstractly, and warmth all the way down his front, heat radiating off of Ren to soak into his jacket and the thin undershirt beneath. It’s not something to dwell on.

Except dwell he will, later. In the privacy of his own rooms.

“ _ Idiot _ .” Ren’s gone and made it worse, now, and Hux grunts as he rolls away, keeping the bottle still in one hand carefully cradled so he doesn’t end up having to clean glass while he’s at it. He stands; Ren’s lost the compress to the floor, and when he attempts to reach for it, Hux shoos him off, holding a hand out instead with a grumbled swear.

“Next time you get injured, have the decency to be unconscious for the duration of your treatment.” It’s  _ exhausting _ , otherwise, and Hux grunts as he helps Ren to standing, nearly falling again when the man pitches forward and proceeds to drape himself over his chest.

“No needles.” The demand is muffled somewhere against his collar, and Hux is acutely aware of the blood getting smeared into the front of his jacket. He hesitates, bracing most of the weight of two men on one leg and a prayer, then huffs a sigh, curling a hand around the back of Ren’s neck in an awkward approximation of a reassuring pat.

“Fine. But your Medbay stay automatically becomes mandatory. Two cycles.” There’s something of a petulant noise - again, from somewhere around Hux’s collar - and he takes it as agreement to the terms laid out. He doesn’t get his hopes up, isn’t nearly stupid enough to believe that Ren will stay put like he’s asked, but it’s good enough to mollify him for now and he nudges weakly at Ren’s shoulder. “Up, up. Go sit, then. I have to bandage you, still.”

Again, Ren rumbles something unintelligible, but there’s finally movement and like some great, lumbering beast the Knight lifts himself, looking Hux over like he expects him to magically produce another syringe out of his ass.

“Well? Go on before you bleed all over the floor.” Cleaning staff already has their work cut out for them with the messes Ren makes on the regular.

Ren doesn’t seem to be going anywhere just yet, though, and Hux is just about ready to physically push him back towards the bed when he finally swoops down, brushing a barely-anything, there-and-gone-again kiss to the sharp jut of one cheekbone. Then he’s gone, down the short hallway and around the corner to his bunk while Hux is left to pick both his jaw and his supplies up - some off the shelves while others from the floor - and follow after him.

**Author's Note:**

> Come chat about Kylux and other Trash with me on my Tumblr:  
> tenyearsexperienceman.tumblr.com


End file.
